“When she closed her eyes she felt he had many hands, which touched her everywhere, and many mouths, which passed so swiftly over her, and with a wolf like sharpness, his teeth sank into her fleshiest parts. Naked now, he lay his full length over her. She enjoyed his weight on her, enjoyed being crushed under his body. She wanted him soldered to her, from mouth to feet. Shivers passed through her body.” –Anais Nin, Delta of Venus

Dear Henry,

I had difficulty falling asleep last night. The autumn rain was pounding on the roof top of our suburban home, the trees swayed to and fro in rapid motion by wild wind, and the temperature of the night was dropping quickly, degree by degree. My temples were pounding profusely in tormented rhythm with the rain. My heart was thumping from the torture of my headache. I could find no relief. My dreams were delayed by my suffering and the stress of my lack of financial resources, my children, and my inability to write to you on a regular basis, because of my responsibilities of taking care of Little Miss M.

I never thought that I would be at war with my youngest daughter, Little Miss M’s mother. I would never tolerate a friend who treated me the way that she has. She has been living in a crazy world ever since the death of her boyfriend. She’s doing everything that she can to destroy my contentment. I had just read the court papers which my daughter has filed against me, which was sent to me via snail mail, stating that I had to return to court to fight for Little Miss M’s guardianship and safety, moments before I went to bed. I fumed with frustration, I wept with sadness, I felt bitter with betrayal, and I simmered with anger. My daughter has stated in the court papers that I am slandering her. I am sure that she will think I am slandering her again by writing this letter to you, telling the truth of my life. She has accused me of slander for setting up a trust account to help pay for the care of Little Miss M. I am being honest, typing words of truth, bearing my soul, in hopes for financial assistance, and that other mothers can possibly relate to the difficulties which they may have to battle with their own daughters. I am sure that I am not the only one feeling heartbroken due to the massive cracks in our mother – daughter relationship. I am bearing my soul because if I did not relieve myself with writing this letter to you, I will explode from stress and agitation. I do not believe that writing the truth is an act of slander. My daughter is mentally ill. There is nothing that I can do until she chooses to get help. I used to talk to my youngest daughter by phone five to six times per day. For the past four months, we have not spoken a word to each other. It genuinely breaks my heart.

It was past one o’clock in the morning when I finally drifted off to sleep, escaping into a world which consisted of a multitude of flashing dreams. My inner turmoil was transcending into an erotic dreamscape. The first episode of dreams traveled me back in time, reuniting me with my best friend from high school. It felt comforting to spend time with someone who I had entrusted with my friendship, my inner demons, and listened to my confessions of an adolescent drama queen. Eventually my chimera eclipsed into a flight of fancy where it was a hot midsummer’s night. I saw visions of myself, side by side with a high school lover, embracing each other, naked in a lush and cool grassy park. Sometime during the night, I found myself roaming like a specter in my dreams. I was now in Paris with Anaïs Nin and you, Henry. Anaïs appeared so beautiful, alluring, and provocative, wearing a colorful, long, silk, 1920’s caftan robe, as she lay like a cat in heat on her gorgeous bed. Her milky white skin was exposed from the front opening of her colorful garment slipping open. Her female essence mesmerized me like a snake charmer does a serpent. Her silky skin enticed me even more, which her slipping caftan was now exposing her beautiful thighs. Her raven hair was long and loose. Her skin appeared delicate, soft and creamy white, much like a porcelain doll. Her lips were stained – red as roses. I observed her like a phantom from another world through an ethereal veil.

Anaïs’ erotic escapades began by making love to you, Henry. Your robust hands roamed upon her lovely breasts, squeezing her perky mounds of firm flesh, your fingertips grip her nipples like a vice and then rolled them between your fingertips. Anaïs throat hummed gratifying moans. Her delicate toes curled and uncurled as ecstasy rushed through her blood. Your traversing lips kissed her mouth, neck and breasts with a voracious appetite. Your lips suckled upon her erect nipples. Anaïs’ breath was jagged, her enchanting mouth was open wide, her exotic eyes closed in rhapsody, her mind sensing and absorbing every touch, thrust and wiggle. Your virile hands pushed her silky thighs far apart, causing Anaïs to moan with extreme arousal. Your fingers slicked upon her glossy, swollen labia, tickled and glided upon her arduous clitoris, and delve deep inside her honey hole, her body now writhing in a state of bawdy delirium.

I gasped with envy when your head vanished between Anaïs’ thighs. Your tongue lapping at her fruit like an over anxious child devouring an ice cream cone on hot, summer day. Anaïs’ moans escalated higher, rapidly becoming more frenzied. The memory of her thick, sultry cream abandoned upon your upper lip, when your head bobbed up for air, stained my brain, haunting me in the morning, hours after I had awoken.

I recall an eerie feeling as if I was being watched, when you and Anaïs peered in my direction. You depart Anaïs’ trembling body, and walk, muscular and naked, your skin glowing with sweat, towards the ethereal veil which I had assumed shielded me from your sight. I softly shriek with shocked disbelief when your hand firmly grabs my wrist, pulling me into your fantasia world.

“Bring her to me,” Anaïs pleaded with a lusty, moaning whisper. I witnessed her expose more of her thighs, slipping the silky caftan off her buttery skin. You pulled me completely through my ethereal veil. I was no longer a pellucid spirit in the night. I was a red, hot blooded woman, pulsing with fervid vitality. I could feel my ardent lust pump hard between my legs. The ache was so agonizing, I could hardly walk. When I looked down at my body, my nightgown had vanished. I was completely vulnerable and naked.

It was difficult to breathe when you guided my body towards Anaïs. I sucked down a large doze of fresh air before you pushed my head in between Anaïs’ thighs which quivered with anticipation.

“Taste her,” you spoke with a clear dominant tone.

Her love juice poured hotly from her sex – thick, creamy and wet. Her flavor pleased me – sweet and salty. My head was buried between her luscious thighs, my long, raven hair caressing upon the top of her bare legs. My back arched like a cat in heat, my buttocks rising higher in the air, anticipating your hand to strike hard upon my aroused flesh and your fingers to deeply explore within me. My titillating moans were muffled by Anaïs’ fleshy, pink folds of skin, when I finally received what I so desperately wanted from you. The strikes upon my glowing pink buttocks crashed like cymbals when your hand collided with my naked, firm skin. The music of sensuality penetrated the air. Our moans were sung like a choir, in tones of tenor, muffled alto, and high pitched soprano screams. My ass jutted further backwards to plunge your fingers deep inside me. My head arched backwards, my mouth briefly gasped for air before my tongue was wiggling faster and plunging deeper and more desperate into my beautiful lover. Anaïs was screaming with blissful passion. I felt so loved when she compassionately stroked my long, raven hair, while I licked her swollen clitoris, and plunged my tongue into her honey hole, as she comforted me like a mother would her child. My glossy, wet, stem of flesh stiffened, my sex ached more profusely, and my flowing lust dripped rapidly onto your fingers, knuckles and wrist.

Suddenly, my dream rapidly flashes forward in time. Anaïs, you and I are collapsed upon Anaïs’ large bed. Our bodies are entangled together. Musk permeates the air. I suddenly notice that all the erotic paintings hung on Anaïs’ bedroom wall, were painted by me. You are telling me in soft, raspy whispers, why you like my paintings so much, as your naked, muscular chest heaves up and down, attempting to catch your breath. I don’t remember painting them. I am astounding by the curves, the colors and the eroticism in this collection of artistic portraits. I quickly attempt to record the erotic images of art deep inside my brain, so that I can hopefully find the time to paint them when I awaken from this lascivious dream.

Eventually, I faded from this erogenous reverie , and was briskly dragged back into reality. The dawn was approaching. My loins continued to ache. My panties were soaked with moist lust. I could hear Little Miss M stirring in her bed. I closed my eyes tightly, wishing that Little Miss M would sleep just a little bit longer, so I could remain mesmerized and entertained by my sexual chimera. Soon, I heard her tiny feet shuffle across the hardwood floors and her little body, invading my side of the bed, pushing me closer to Mr. C. When my body presses tightly against my husband’s warm body, a surge of erotic energy tingled up and down my spine. I desperately wished that it was just him and me in the bed together. Unfortunately, this was not the case. I had to contain my sexual energy, slightly awaken from my lust-filled dreams, and attempt to find comfort in a crowded bed.

Finding comfort in a crowded bed never occurred. I was forced to completely wake up from this sensual dream and start my day taking care of Little Miss M. I have not felt the glorious emotion of sexual satisfaction for numerous months. Mr. C and I did not have the opportunity be intimate with each other on our wedding anniversary, due to taking care of Little Miss M. I have not had the opportunity to self – satisfy myself. I feel like I am going to explode into a million pieces soon, if I can’t find a way to relieve my sexual tension and escape from my daily stress.

The sensual images of my dream linger inside my mind throughout my day. The ache between my thighs haunted me. I daydream for time alone with Mr. C – or for time alone with myself. Unfortunately, I do not know when that will happen. Our nights and days continue to be occupied with the responsibilities of being a guardian of a small child. For now, my sexual escapades are contained deep inside my dreams.

My life is not always full of eroticism, glamour or excitement. I don’t always have a dazzling life as a burlesque star, a magician, an artist and an erotic writer. When I am not producing a burlesque show or slowly slipping off my elegant, glittering costumes, nylons and lingerie on stage, when I am not writing erotic letters to you, Henry, when I am not traveling to exotic or adventurous cities, such as Manhattan, San Francisco or Paris, I am living an ordinary life. I do not have the magic answers on how to publish the great American, romance novel. I do not have the correct answers on how to become a famous artist or to produce a successful burlesque show. I can only wing it as I move forward in life and hope that success will follow. Today, I am just a woman who is starting her life over, becoming a guardian to a very special child, who I love dearly. I will protect her and love her as best as I can, even if that means that I sacrifice my dreams.

For many years I have fantasized about becoming a published author, touring the world on a successful book tour. I have dreamed of observing my art work on famous gallery walls. I have worked hard, and more often than not, I have worked for free to build my career and my name, hoping that it would lead to something fantastic and financially rewarding someday. I have dreamed of a romantic, sexual life with Mr. C and that we would travel the world together, creating new adventures and erotic memories as we grow older in our lives. However, my road in life has drastically changed, since the death of Little Miss M’s father. I honestly don’t know if I will ever see my dreams materialize. All that I know is that I still have a loving, patient, understanding husband, a beautiful granddaughter, loving stepchildren, and close friends, who I hold near and dear to my heart.

The number thirteen has always been a magic number for Mr. C and me. We met on Friday, March 13, 1998. I imagined publishing the first book of fifty letters written to you, Henry, this year – 2013. I have been diligently writing this blog for almost two years. I still have a lot of re-editing to do, in order to get the first fifty letters ready for publishing. I have almost 18,000 hits on my blog. I expected my life to magically change for the better at the age of forty-five, when my children had become young adults. However, with the overwhelming responsibilities of taking care of Little Miss M, who has suddenly come into my life, and enduring the traumatic war between my youngest daughter and me, I do not know if my dreams will ever materialize. I often wish for a fairy Godmother to swish her magic wand to transform my life and manifest my dreams. It feels like all of my hard work, over the course of many years, has been for nothing. Presently, my days are now spent helping Little Miss M grow and develop into a fabulous, beautiful, stable, successful woman. I can only hope that I can make that happen, and that all of my sacrifices in my life to do so, are worthwhile.

Today, I feel extreme sadness that my life has not gone as I had originally planned. I try to flow like water down a raging river, with all of the changes and obstacles which have recently come into my life, as best as possible. Maybe my first book of fifty letters written to you, Henry Miller, will someday be published and maybe it won’t. But, I refused to give up. I have to keep trying to manifest my dreams, even if the process is slow and the outcome is unexpected.

I know deep in my soul that I was born to become a successful writer and artist. I was also created to be a maternal figure for others – to love and to cherish them, regardless if they hate me in the end. Sometimes we don’t always get what we desire. I have always done my best to be a good person, a good mother, and a good friend. I cannot do any better than I already have done. At least I have had the ability to travel in my life through literature, dreams, fantasies and real life experiences, prior to Little Miss M coming into my life. I am grateful that I have journeyed onward with my life with the gift of your numerous books depicting your sexual and enlightening life, Henry. I am definitely not an expert in life. I am just a woman trying to do the best I can to live each minute of my days as best as possible. It has been gratifying to experience the adventures which I have already journeyed, whether they have consisted of good or bad experiences. My life is an amazing, emotional roller coaster ride, full of climaxes and down slopes. I am left in this moment in my life, ready to uncover whatever mysteries are in my future. I will never give up on my dreams, regardless of what comes my way. I am not ashamed to be the sexually enlightened woman that I have become. I will not apologize to others. Nor will I feel shame for what my family members may think of me as I continue to slowly compose these letters to you, Henry. I have never required expensive, lavish, name brand fashions, a fancy house, a luxurious sports car, and a glamorous, rich life. I have only required your wisdom and guidance through the literature which you have left behind in your myriad of books, to help guide me as I continue onward to live my life. I have to believe that my investment in purchasing your books and my time reading them will eventually pay off. I have sacrificed so much of my life, contributing my time to reading, writing, art work, and taking care of my family. At this moment in my life, I feel that my dreams may never prosper. I have to hang onto a small thread of faith. I cannot believe that my efforts will be for nothing.

I must end this letter Henry, Little Miss M is full of mayhem today. It makes it difficult to write.

Bisous, Mon Amour,

Mia

“I had a feeling that Pandora’s box contained the mysteries of woman’s sensuality, so different from a man’s and for which man’s language was so inadequate. The language of sex had yet to be invented. The language of the senses was yet to be explored.” – Anais Nin, Delta of Venus

Photo of Me and my monkey named after Henry Miller doing a kinky, burlesque number

Dear Henry,

My grandchildren are fabulous and funny. – Erica Jong

My life has drastically changed ever since my granddaughter’s father passed away on Mother’s Day, 2013. My husband and I now have Little Miss M in our custody. Sometimes she is pure joy and other times she is full of mess and mischief. She is at daycare today. I finally have the time to write to you without any interruptions. Over the past five months, my life has been turned upside down. I never thought that I would be a guardian of a cute, charismatic toddler at my age. I don’t get the time to do the things that make me truly happy, like writing on a regular basis, re-editing my first fifty letters to you, or painting at my nice, quiet artist loft in the cities, which I no longer have. However, I cannot imagine my life without Little Miss M, even though she can drive me nuts with her constant alien chatter, her cute yet mischievous ways, and her continuous movement. She also showers me with so much love and affection. It melts my heart and turns me into Mia Mush. Little Miss M kisses me until my breath is completely depleted. She makes me laugh even when I want to cry with frustration, because she is so adorable and charismatic. I watch her with joy and amusement. She does such silly things like dance, whenever she hears music. She’s very entertaining, with a natural rhythm born in her soul.

Last night, an hour before our bed time, I was in the kitchen. Little Miss M and Mr. C were in the living room watching cartoons. I am getting sick of Curious George. I will scream with madness if I have to watch another episode on Netflix.

“Are you pooping?” I heard my husband ask Little Miss M, as I peered into our living room and observed Little Miss M squatting in the corner where her toys are located.

“Are you pooping?” He asked again, as I wiped the kitchen counter top clean. I smirk with delight for a brief second and squish my noise up in disgust, knowing that I am going to have to change her diaper soon.

“I’m bine (fine),” Little Miss M demands, in her own, unrefined, toddler language. “Top (stop) it Bampa (grandpa),” She yells in irritation to Mr. C, once again waving her tiny hand at him.

“Are you pooping?” My husband asks again, peering over the rim his glasses, unable to conceal the smirk of beguilement on his distinguished face.

“Go away,” Little Miss M insists again, shaking her head from side to side, her honey blonde wave of curls swishes from side to side. “No, I’m bine (fine). I’m not pooping,” even though she was. Over the past several months we have come to learn well when Little Miss M is pooping.

“Come here, Little Miss Poopy Pants,” I demanded after entering the living room, strutting in Little Miss M’s direction, gulping down a lump of repugnance. I was not looking forward to changing another shitty diaper.

“I cannot wait until she is fully potty trained.” I muttered softly to myself. We have been working on potty training Little Miss M for several months.

“No, I’m bine (fine). I’m bine,” Little Miss M insists that her diaper is not full of smelly, stinky poop as I swoop her up in my arms and sniff at her butt like a mother dog.

“Yes, you were pooping,” I reply, attempting not to giggle. “Let’s go change your diaper. How come you did not tell me you needed to use the potty?” I ask, grinning largely, tickling Little Miss M’s belly.

“I’m bine. I’m bine.” She repeats, giggling loudly as I carry her off to the bedroom to change her dirty, smelly diaper. Little Miss M cannot stand the smell of her own shit. I always laugh when she gags profoundly when I am changing one of her dirty diapers. It gives me a little bit of satisfaction for having to do such a gross job. I should be gagging more than her, because I am downwind when I am changing Little Miss M’s diaper.

“I will not change poopy diapers,” Mr. C seriously stated a few days after Little Miss M came to live with us.

“Pussy,” I thought inside my head, knowing that the dirty jobs like puking or pooping would always be my responsibility.

Most of my days are spent with Little Miss M. I am forever chasing after her, screaming or chanting the word, “no,” as she discovers the cardboard box containing my Bristol Paper, Sharpie pens/markers and Prisma Color Markers, which I use to create art, or when she feeds her cupcakes to the dogs, or pulls them tortuously around the living room by their collars. Sometimes, it is not until hours afterwards when I bust my gut laughing at all the naughty things Little Miss Mel has done during our days together.

Most often, on the weekends, Mr. C and I take Little Miss Mel on an adventure. Sometimes it is the zoo, sometimes it is walking around the Minneapolis Lakes, sometimes it is driving to Duluth for Russ Kendall’s Smoked Fish, and one of Betty’s delicious Pies. Sometimes we visit the nearby park or go to the Mall of America. We took Little Miss M to the Minnesota State Fair this past August. It was fun to watch her enjoy some of the foods, like the deep fried cheese curds and pronto pups covered with large blobs of ketchup. Mr. C and I also love to observe people. My husband is a private detective and I have always been a writer, so observing others is something that we both enjoy doing together, ever since we first met. On the day we visited the Minnesota State Fair, the weather was extremely hot and humid, walking through thick crowds and observing extremely thick people shoveling fried food into their mouths, as if they had not eaten for days.

I love it when funny or peculiar events occur that stain the memories of that moment in time, inside my brain. An hour after we arrived at the State Fair, Mr. C, Little Miss M and I took retreat in the shade to rest for a bit. We walked past a very frustrated father and his two, naughty boys. The boys had been buckled into a large, double stroller designed to fit two children, until one of them escaped. His name was Archer. As Archer was running as fast as he could, away from his father and his brother who was still buckled into the stroller, I could hear his father yell, “Archer, get back here.” The other brother had very light blond hair and wore black rimmed glasses, reminding me of the boy, Ralphie, from the classic movie, A Christmas Story, as he cheered Archer on. “Run Archer Run! Faster! Faster!” Soon, Archer was running even faster as his father chased after him. The chase ceased when the father heard his other son cheer Archer on. Suddenly he stopped and turned around, huffing and puffing. His face glowed red with frustration. The father was fuming with anger, stomping his feet in long, hurried strides towards the smirking boy in the over sized stroller.

The blonde boy with the black rimmed glasses immediately knew that he was in trouble. His pernicious smirk quickly fades when his father approaches the stroller, yelling and shaking the blonde boy with the black rimmed glasses. I thought to myself as I observed from a distance, “Now, that is a parent who does not sugar coat his discipline with calm, nauseating words. He is definitely old school. I also wondered why he did not continue to chase Archer who was now swallowed up by the large, flowing crowd. Where was Archer’s mother?”

Before the father could loosen his grip on his mouthy child to scurry himself back into the crowd to find Archer, we hear frantic, female screams, who we assumed was Archer’s mother, slicing through the thick crowd of people, and hot humid air. Her screams quickly escalated higher, transcending into a frantic pitch. “Archer! Archer! ARCHER! ARCHER!”

Mr. C and I turned our heads to look at one another. Our eyebrows are raised with disbelief at the family fiasco we observed. Our mouths were shaped like surprised little O’s. Eventually, Archer was found. We witnessed his mother tugging hard upon Archer’s ear, escorting her son back to the double seated stroller. Eventually Archer was buckled alongside his brother in the double stroller and his family disappeared into the flowing sea of people.

Mr. C pushed Little Miss M in her pink stroller, after our rest in the shade. We slowly made our way through the crowd of slow walking people. I was shocked at the people who walked against the crowd and stared them down with an evil stare when they would not get out of our way. At one point, I thought Mr. C was going to crash Little Miss M’s stroller into a tall, fat, intoxicated man who would not move aside, as we continued to try to push our way through the herd of people. Mr. C grumbled with discontent. He mumbled under his breath a long string of rude comments directed at the intoxicated dumb ass; as we pushed our way past him. Little Miss M did not mind the crowd or the stupid, drunk people. She loves to be the center of attention. She smiled at everyone who passed us, waving her little, dainty hand like a princess on a parade float, saying, “hi,” to everyone she saw, with bright eyes and an adorable smile.

Later, in the afternoon, we stopped near a bandstand where upbeat music was playing. I needed to change Little Miss M’s soaking wet diaper. The restrooms were full, so we found a shady, discrete place in the park, not too far from the band stand.

I did my best to change her diaper as quickly as I could. It was impossible. Little Miss M loves music, she loves to dance, and she loves to be the center of attention. When the cool breeze evaporated the wetness on Little Miss M’s bare, little bottom, she quickly stood up and began to dance to the upbeat music. Her little feet shuffled, dancing quickly away from Mr. C and me. She moved so rapidly, I could not get a dry diaper on Little Miss M fast enough. It was a struggle to get Little Miss M back onto the blanket which we had spread out on the grass to change her diaper. Little Miss M continued to dance and wave at everyone nearby with her bare bottom exposed to everyone she greeted. She was definitely comfortable in her own skin.

When I finally put a dry diaper on Little Miss M, and her denim shorts back on, I shrugged my shoulders, grinning with embarrassment and said to Mr. C, who was very red in the face, “She’s definitely a future burlesque star.” We both laughed as we buckled Little Miss M back into her stroller, pushing our way through the crowd again. Little Miss M’s head was bobbing up and down to the beat of the music, which continued to play at the bandstand. As it faded from our ears, Little Miss M continued to wave her hand, sitting in her stroller, smiling and greeting the people we passed in the hot, smelly crowd. Fried food lingered on people’s breath and expelled a foul order from their dripping sweat. I often feel blessed that Little Miss M spices up our life. Our trip to the fair might have been dull without observing Little Miss M’s reaction with the crowd.

In the beginning of Little Miss M’s stay with us, I fought tooth and nail about having to be the guardian of a small child at my age. I had already gone through the growing pains of raising my children. It was like I was fighting to remain a float upon a torrential wave of unsettling emotions. The strong current of fight and resistance tugged me downward to drown in a hopeless sea. I did not want to sacrifice all that I have worked hard for, ever since my children became young adults. I fought the thoughts of having to possibly give up writing, art work, magic and burlesque. It was not until I finally surrendered to the moment, learning to enjoy my time with Little Miss M, when I discovered how to float and survive each minute in life. When I acquiesced to this new journey in my life, I felt more serene and stable.

Art created by Mia Malone-Jennings, inspired by the late, great pin-up artist, Bill Ward

In the beginning weeks of my new adventure with Little Miss M, I thought that I had to give up writing letters to you, my artwork and burlesque show, in order dedicate my time to care for Little Miss M. During the past several months I have learned to be creative in other ways, like creating homemade beads to create jewelry at a minimal cost, bake cupcakes, and sometimes find time to create a new art portrait, or write my letters to you, in small increments of my time. It may take me longer to create a new art piece or write a letter to you, Henry, but, eventually I complete a new art portrait, another letter, produce another burlesque show, and re-edit a few of the first fifty letters to you, so that I can eventually published it as a book. My projects often appears as a large task to me. I figure that if I can move a little bit further on a project whenever I find the time, it is better than wasting the moment doing something non-productive. Today, I feel joy again, as Little Miss M’s in daycare for today, I have the silence of my day to serenade me like peaceful music as my fingers float quickly across my keyboard, writing this letter to you. I love the sensual sounds of the click-clack-clicks, when my fingers type fast sentences and quick paragraphs.

Fourteen years ago today, October 8, 2013, I wed my soul mate, Mr. C in Sin City. My divorce from Mr. D.A. had just been signed and finalized three days prior to us leaving for Last Vegas. I had been separated from my first husband for three years. He dragged his feet, consenting to a divorce. Mr. C and I originally had plans for a small wedding in the backyard of our beautiful, country home. Unfortunately, Mr. C was in a terrible car accident a few weeks before we were to be married. He was hit by a drunk driver. His injuries consisted of several ruptured disks in his neck and three broken ribs. Since I loved the city of Las Vegas and Mr. C had never traveled there, we decided to have an intimate wedding in Nevada.

“Why should we spend all of our money on feeding guests, pleasing friends and family, when we can go to Las Vegas and try to have a wonderful time and an intimate wedding, “ I said to Mr. C, several days after his car accident, as he suffered in silence, watching television on the living room sofa. “I had a big wedding with Mr. D.A. and it was a disaster. I don’t think that I can endure another disastrous wedding. You will love Las Vegas. Our time will be spent together, alone. We won’t be worrying about pleasing everyone. It will be exciting and romantic.”

“We have to celebrate life,” I softly spoke, sitting next to the man I loved so deeply on the sofa. “Your life was almost taken in that accident. I don’t know what I would do without you in my life. On the day we get married, I want you all to myself. I don’t want to share you with anyone.” I kissed Mr. C lovingly, passionately, and softly upon his lips.

“Your life could have been taken as well, “Mr. C replied. “On the night of the car accident, if you were not at home beading your wedding dress, and would have come a long with me when I picked my son up from the roller skating rink, you might be dead. The drunken asshole totally demolished the passenger side of the Time Machine. (That is what we called our Ford Tempo at the time). I don’t think you would have lived through the accident. I am lucky to be alive. I am lucky to have you still in my life, darling.”

“We need to celebrate life and buy our airline tickets as soon as possible,” I replied as I got off the sofa, and began heading upstairs to use the land line in our office to call our friends and family to inform them about the change in our wedding plans. “I am going to need to buy a new, wedding dress. The hundreds of beads on the dress that I was diligently designing broke on the evening of your accident. It took me forever to sweep up all of those tiny beads. I can’t believe that I had spent the last three months of my life creating that dress. It kind of sucks it did not turn out. I am pretty sure that I can purchase an inexpensive, beautiful dress in less than a week. Do we have the cash?”

Over the next week, I searched all over the Twin Cities to purchase an inexpensive, yet beautiful wedding dress. I wanted it to be off white. I kept a positive attitude during my shopping excursion. Since I have always had to live with having a small, financial budget, especially for clothing, I always came across the right garment for the right price. Sometimes I designed and sewed my own clothing. I was confident that I would discover the perfect, wedding dress in a second hand boutique, which I eventually discovered on Excelsior Boulevard. It was the color of champagne. The bust of this dress shimmered with beautiful beading. The back of the dress had numerous, satin covered buttons down the back of the dress, and a gorgeous, long train. It looked like a dress from a Cinderella story. I was grateful for the cost of this exquisite dress – $100.00. I love finding new treasures at a magical price.

We spent our first day in Las Vegas visiting all the Casinos on the strip, got our marriage license from the Clark County Courthouse, and was entertained in the evening with an elegant, erotic show at the Stardust Casino. As we toured Las Vegas, I loved witnessing the thrilled look in Mr. C’s eyes as he observed Sin City for the first time. We stayed at the Golden Nugget Casino located on Fremont Street. It was close to the court house. Mr. C was excruciating pain due to his broken ribs, but he refused to permit his pain override his excitement. During the afternoon on our second day in Las Vegas I went to the Golden Nugget’s Salon. I wanted my hair styled in an elegant, classic up do, before we got married. I felt like a sparkling Princess when the talented, hair dresser finally finished my hair, sprinkling a small amount of white glitter upon my barrel curls, and then lavished several of the bobby pins, which kept my smooth, neat, barrel curls in place, with white, iridescent pearls.

“I have an elaborate wedding dress with a lot of buttons on the back. Is there anyone in this casino who could help me button up my dress before my wedding ceremony?” I asked my hair dresser after I paid her for her service and tipped her very well.

An hour before we left for the wedding chapel, there was a knock on my door.

“Hello, Ma’am, I am here to button up your wedding dress,” greeted a plump, hotel maid. Her skin was the color of dark chocolate. Her teeth glowed bright white. Her short, black, curly hair was sprinkled with grey.

“Come on in,” I smiled. “Thank you so much for helping me,” I said graciously, sighing with relief as I let the hotel maid in and closed the door behind her.

I had my dress on before she arrived. The only task for the hotel maid was to button the back of my dress. I felt a deep sense of love for my groom, and gratitude for the help I was receiving from the hotel maid as she started buttoning up the back of my wedding dress. I could not move. I could only observe Mr. C getting dressed into a pair of sharp, black dress pants, black suspenders, an off white dress shirt, and fancy black silk tie through a small crack in the bathroom door. When my dress was finally buttoned, and the long train on my dress was securely bustled up, Mr. C tipped the hotel maid well, for her assistance, prior to her walking out our hotel room door. She added magic to the beginning of our wedding night, creating a warm, kind, and maternal memory for me.

The first time I got married, I had to wear two wedding gowns – an American one, and a Korean one. I found it stressful to quickly change from one dress with another. It slowed down our wedding. By the time I had reached our wedding reception, the food had already been served to our guests and my wedding cake had been cut. I cried in the bathroom for almost an hour. On the day I wed my second husband, I felt no distress getting into this fairy tale gown. The hotel maid’s aura was peaceful, kind and maternal. She made me feel serene and well taken care of.

My heart beat fast as I held Mr. C’s hand in the elevator. I could hardly breathe. My palms were sweaty from nervousness.

“You have a beautiful bride.”

“Thank you,” I replied, to the middle – age gentleman who shared the elevator with us, blushing with abashment until we reached the hotel lobby. A shiny, black, four door Sedan was waiting for us, outside the glass front door of our hotel, to take us to the Chapel near the Riviera Casino. I had read on the internet that Whoopi Goldberg had been wed in this chapel. I love Whoopi Goldberg. I felt that this was our lucky chapel to be wedded in.

Our ceremony was quaint, classic, and exquisite. It did not feel like a cheesy, wedding ceremony on the Las Vegas’ strip. It was romantic, uncomplicated and very intimate. Joyous tears pooled in Mr. C’s and my eyes, as I walked calmly, elegantly, and slowly down the aisle towards him at the altar. I stared at his handsome face with love struck eyes as if he was were my main focal point while giving birth to a child. I felt hypnotized with every step I took closer to my groom, serenaded by the beautiful song composed and sung by Savage Garden, Truly, Madly, Deeply. When I arrived at Mr. C’s side, the timeless melody of Jim Croce song, “Time in a bottle, projected from the stereo speakers. Mr. C firmly held my hand as we stared deeply and lovingly into each other’s eyes until the beautiful song ended. When our short wedding ceremony was finished, Mr. C and I kissed each other with undying passion, projecting energy from the depths of our love, and our souls. On that afternoon, at the altar, we kissed – truly, madly, deeply.

When we returned to our hotel room, Mr. C helped me unbutton my dress and remove it, exposing my white laced lingerie. His kiss was warm, passionate and loving, when he gently reclined my body onto our hotel bed. We made love to each other for hours, despite the agony of Mr. C’s broken ribs. I was pleasured with foreplay for a very long time, until Mr. C’s diamond hard shaft drove deep within me, and we exploded with combustible rapture – our climax was mind-blowing. When our naked bodies unlocked from our embrace, my body immediately went weak, collapsing upon the bed. My soul felt electrified. My blood stream was hot and racy. My grin was so large, feeling like the luckiest woman alive. I knew that I would and could love Mr. C for the rest of my life – truly, madly, deeply. After we recovered, we fed each other wedding cake. It was incredibly romantic.

I brought two dresses to wear on my wedding day and night in Las Vegas. After we made love, I no longer looked like a fairy tale princess. I appeared like a vixen cloaked in a sexy, short, black leather skirt and jacket, black, thigh high, fishnet stockings, a black garter and matching bra, as well as knee high, black leather boots. Mr. C wore faded Levi’s, and the off white dress shirt he wore at our wedding ceremony. When we walked outside of our hotel we were astounded by the light show on Fremont Avenue. The walk ways on Fremont Avenue was crowded, full of tourists, the homeless, scam artists and soulful musicians. Mr. C and I watched in awe at the assortment of people. It was a wonderful way to start our new life together as man and wife.

Our Wedding Night

I remember it well beneath the Vegas lights,

It was mid October when we two lovers wed,

Thereafter we made love upon our hotel bed,

O’ how he made sweet love to me!

I remember it all so well-our fairytale like night.

It was simple, yet, so perfect, as if wedded in a dream.

My pulse quickened standing at the altar, hand in hand,

My hand wrapped in his hand,

His hand held by my hand,

It was there upon my lips he kissed me,

In silence we stood as if frozen, hour glass sand,

And time stood still upon this dreamy scene.

Before him I stood with pearls in my hair,

Laced within my tresses of auburn hair,

So love struck in his eyes I stared,

“I Do,” I heard his heart confess to me,

“My darling,” I said touching his face with care,

“My heart will be yours for eternity.”

We whispered our vows beneath the Vegas lights,

Thereafter we watched the Fremont Show of lights

Together we stood hand in hand in love, that special night

Husband and wife, him and me

I’ll never forget that romantic, desert night

It was as if it were a fairytale in some kind of dream.

Author, Mia

On the last day in Las Vegas we visited the MGM Grand Hotel. I have always enjoyed Frank Baum’s legendary story, The Wizard of Oz. The gift shop was full of memorabilia from the movie. I have always been a book lover and squealed with delight when I saw the hardcover book, authored by Frank Baum’s great grandson, Roger S. Baum, The Lion of Oz and the Badge of Courage. When I saw Roger S. Baum autographing his book for a few other fans, I knew that I had to purchase a copy. I was overjoyed that I was going to get an autographed copy. Ever since Mr. C and I met, our lives were like magic. We were always in the right place at the right time. The author projected a warm aura as I told him how important the metaphorical messages from the story, The Wizard of Oz, had impacted my life at a young age. I told him that I even had a dog named Toto when I was very young. We talked for awhile about writing, poetry and life experiences. Roger S. Baum was down the earth, warm and friendly. I loved my visit with him.

Ten years later, Mr. C and I returned to Las Vegas to celebrate our ten year wedding anniversary. We stayed at the Hilton. After my divorce from Mr. D.A. (my first husband), my visit to Sam Dimas, California and meeting Mr. California Man, I was extremely passionate about the music from Andrew Lloyd Webber’s, The Phantom of the Opera. I love to create art listening to the passionate, operatic music on several CD’s. Before I met my second husband, Mr. C, I had told myself that I would marry the man who took me to see the production of The Phantom of the Opera. A few months after Mr. C and I met, he surprised me with two tickets for The Phantom of the Opera, playing at the Orpheum Theater in Minneapolis. He even searched every store in the Twin Cities to purchase my first pair of black satin, over the elbow, gloves which matched my long, black velvet evening dress. I cried with joy during the entire production, because I could not believe that I was finally seeing The Phantom of the Opera for the first time in my life. I had only dreamed about my seeing The Phantom of the Opera.

Mr. C treated me like a princess ever since we met. He wanted to transcend each one of my life fantasies and erotic fantasies into a reality. The fingertips of my black satin gloves were damp from my tears when the curtain came down when the amazing production was finished. I had pools of tears in my eyes when we exited the Orpheum Theater and walked onto Hennepin Avenue. I was grateful for the warm, summer breeze, which quickly evaporated the tears which glistened with wetness on my cheeks.

On our ten year wedding anniversary, I had booked airline tickets to Las Vegas and VIP tickets to see the Phantom of the Opera at the Venetian Hotel. We desperately needed to get away for some quality time together. We were living with Mr. C’s mother, taking care of her needs prior to her death and living with my youngest, teenage daughter, who could be a whirlwind of stress and frustration. Prior to seeing the show, Mr. C and I had amazing, mind blowing sex. We spent a few hours in our hotel prior to getting ready to see The Phantom of the Opera. My heart beat raced with escalating titillation. I gasped with arousal and shocked surprise when Mr. C unexpectedly flipped my naked body onto the bed face down. My ass projected upward, anxious for a good spanking. My back curled with anticipation when I felt Mr. C pull the back of my long, black hair. My head arched backwards and my mouth opened, exhaling a highly aroused moan. My pants of hot, stimulated breath quickened, my erotogenic moans heightened, and my sex rained with hot moisture when Mr. C’s hand eventually spanked my bare buttocks several times. My ass jutted backwards in his direction, pleading for more kinky strikes of his hand. After ten years of marriage, he knew how to inflict pain with a perfect rhythm and dominating firmness. I still get wet with arousal thinking about how his several of his fingers plowed into me after striking my ass, twisting, wiggling and thrusting deep with me. My pink, swollen, wet walls of flesh tightened voraciously around my husband’s fingers. I thrust my hips downward, plunging Mr. C’s fingers deeper into me. My body tingled with electricity. My mind buzzed with a stimulating high. I could not contain my excitement or multiple orgasms. My body convulsed and my chest heaved repetitiously. I felt dizzy and delirious. My wet, warm lust gushed like a fast running kitchen faucet onto Mr. C’s hands when his virile fingers curled and pressed up onto my eager g-spot.

“Oh My God, Oh My God, OH MY GOD! This feels so goddamn good!

As quick as a fox disappears into the woods when they see humans, my husband withdraws his fingers, increasing my desire for sexual satisfaction. I sighed with discontent seconds before Mr. C quickly flips me onto my back and spread my legs far apart with his strong thighs. I sucked in a mouthful of air. I sounded like a boiling tea pot, exhaling hot hisses of lust when Mr. C firmly grabbed my wrists with his, forcing them above my head. I surrender easily to his will. I always surrendered to his will. I am a submissive slut. My stomach flutters with anticipation when Mr. C’s mouth presses hard upon mine until it opens. Our tongues twist together with erotic fervor and languished gluttony. Our breath interlaces. Our souls intermingle. Our heartbeats galloped with a unified, frenzied rhythm.

I loudly gasped for air once again, when Mr. C’s mouth traveled southward, halting at the Y between my legs. His adept fingers spread my swollen labia far apart until he could locate the stiff stem inside my glistening, pink flower. His tongue sucked and licked my clitoris – sometimes slow and soft – sometimes fast and hard. Sometimes my leg twitched from the intensity. Raw, passionate electricity traveled up and down my spine like a Jacob’s ladder. My toes curled and uncurled from the pleasure I was receiving. My hips thrust downward when his tongue plunged into my soaking wet aperture. I wanted to feel him deep within. I covered my mouth with one of my hands to silence my screams of bliss, when his fingers replaced his tongue, reaching, thrusting, and exploring deep within me. Bolts of electricity overwhelmed my senses when his fingers pressed and wiggled hard upon my g-spot. His tongue continued to tease and torture my clitoris as his fingers played a rapacious melody deep within me. A deluge of my wetness gushes from my over stimulated sex, soaking Mr. C’s hand and face. His tongue continued lapping up my overheated liquid of lust.

“Fuck me please,” I desperately pleaded. “Fuck me, fuck me.”

Soon the headboard of the bed began to crash into the hotel wall. Thump, thump, thump. My legs were wrapped tightly around my husband’s body, guiding his thrusts deeper and faster into me.

“Oh God, this feels so fucking good,” I moaned. The headboard continued to bump against the wall. Thump! Thump! Thump! My eyes rolled upward with bliss. I felt intoxicated with rushing adrenaline. My vision blurred. My fingers gripped tighter upon the bed sheets. Mr. C is a fucking machine. He does not orgasm easily. Before Mr. C can ejaculate, I cannot hold back any longer, and I surrender to a divine string of long, hard, multiple orgasms. My body trembles like an earthquake’s aftershock. I cannot withstand the intensity any longer. Mr. C continues to drive me insane, thrusting harder and harder into me.

“Please …stop. I can’t take no more. Please, please.” But he does not hear my request. Or, he is ignoring them. His cock plows deeper and faster inside me. This feels fucking fantastic. However, the intensity is driving me completely mad. My vaginal walls constrict and loosen around his hard shaft, over and over again. I concentrate on my breathing to endure the pleasure which rapidly transcended into extreme agony.

“I want to suck your cock,” I begged, hoping this erotic torture will end soon. I did not think that I could withstand this blissful agony much longer. I could hardly breathe. I felt over stimulated and my muscles were weak like cooked noodles. My heart beat fast and furious. My senses were overwhelmed, on the verge of short circuiting. Soon after Mr. C pushed my sexual limits way over the edge of insane ecstasy, his body dismounts me. His overheated body collapsed with exhaustion upon our hotel bed. His naked, muscular chest heaved up and down, glistening with beads of salty sweat, his mouth gasping for air, and his cock still hard and erect. I wanted him to feel as much pleasure as I had when I engulf his glossy, wet, erect shaft into my mouth. His musky order floated into my nostrils. The tip of his cock pushed against my tonsils. His salty excitement slipped down my throat. My tongue glided the tip of his cock back to my wet lips. It slithered against his smooth tip for awhile before I swallowed him into my mouth again. I shut my eyes, continuing to hypnotically retract and withdraw his cock in and out of my covetous mouth, until Mr. C’s finally ejaculated. I smiled with satisfaction when the spout on the tip of his cock spurted with hot semen, as if a volcano erupting.

“You still have the magic touch, darling,” I uttered with raspy breath after collapsing upon the bed again. My limbs were still weak as I rested on my back. My body trembled with orgasmic aftershock. Mr. C and I were side by side, attempting to catch our breath. My naked, small and perk bosoms heaved up and down as my body tried to cool down. His penis withered and his muscular chest heaved up and down as well.

“I love you,” Mr. C replied before we drifted off to sleep for an hour.

Later that evening we took a taxi cab to the Venetian Hotel. Mr. C was dressed in a sharp suit and I was wearing a black cocktail dress with excruciating, shiny, black high heeled pumps. It was amazing to be seated in the second row, completely mesmerized by the astounding production. The first time we saw the Phantom of the Opera, we could not afford seats so close to the stage. I felt fortunate to be able to purchase VIP tickets. Once again, I was in awe and hypnotized by the passionate music and theatrical production.

Afterwards, we got to meet the Phantom back stage. He was taking off his make-up when we entered his dressing room. I was ecstatic to meet him and tour the stage. After the actor playing the Phantom finished removing his make-up, we walked through the corridors back stage with a small group of people who also had purchased VIP tickets. Many of them had brought cameras and wanted their photo taken with the talented, handsome actor. It never crossed Mr. C’s and my mind to bring a camera. The actor appeared disappointed that we did not want our photo taken with him. He insisted that we take a photo with him with Mr. C’s camera on his new phone. Mr. C works as an executive protection guard and we have met many big named celebrities. We are not the type of people who are highly thrilled or in extreme awe of someone in the spotlight of fame. We did not mean to insult the actor’s ego.

However, I was in awe when we were on stage and saw all the trap doors and stage props and were told how they worked. I have always loved the theater ever since I was a little girl. Having the opportunity to see the stage, trap doors and astounding props thrilled me. Having VIP tickets to see The Phantom of the Opera was the perfect way to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. The memory of our vacation in Las Vegas will be remembered forever in my mind. I love to live life and experience new places, creating new, marvelous memories. I would prefer to spend my money on an experience rather than a material item. For a writer such as myself; experiencing life and new adventures is like gold to me.

I must end this letter, Henry. Little Miss M is begging me to take her to the park.

Bisous, Mon Amour

Mia

“Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection. “- Lawrence Durrell

I am continuing to work on Letter 52 – I am also still re-editing my first fifty letters to you. Thank you to my blog readers for your patience. Having custody of my granddaughter, makes it difficult to write on a regular basis. I should have a new letter finished sometime next week. I wanted to post a spooky and erotic poem which is published in Justus Roux’ anthology, Tales of the Paranormal. I also recited this poem at Jamie Joy Houck Gatto’s event in NOLA, Eroticon 2002.

Bane and Angelina

Inside a castle far away the Prince of Darkness sleeps;

Locked with chains to a dungeon wall – a lady fair he keeps.

His soul is starved, his name is Bane, he’s a Vampire from legends told,

His lust is hot, his blood is thin, and his heart is icy cold.

Two nights ago when the moon was full he met his lady fair

On an empty street in Paris with white flowers in her hair.

Her name’s Angelina, her beauty glowed beneath moonlight,

With his eyes he hypnotized and drank her soul that night.

Bane doesn’t feast on human blood; but he feeds slowly on one’s soul;

He dines upon a lady’s love and the beauty which she holds.

He slowly drinks this woman’s soul, her spirit, and her vitality,

He parts her lips and takes a sip of her divinity.

Angelina’s a vision, a lovely portrait, one might say,

During the daylight hours she tries to get away.

Bane’s a handsome fellow; a charmer, one might speak,

She can’t escape his power for he keeps her soul so weak.

For two nights he’s idly feasted, made love to her a hundred times,

And each time he enters deep within, he draws upon her lifeline.

Angelina cannot resist Bane’s power, his charm, and his masculinity,

She melts within like winter snow when the season turns to Spring.

When she moans with pleasure, when she screams with utter fright,

She feeds him more her power and gives him more her light.

Angelina remains imprisoned, pressed naked against the wall,

She dangles weakly from her cuffs as the sun begins to fall.

When darkness veils the evening, when bats take wing this night,

Bane rises slowly from his coffin with a sinful appetite.

Angelina shivers, her body quakes against the dungeon wall,

Her breath rate starts to quicken, her bosoms rise and fall.

“Please, Monsieur, spare me?” Angelina faintly pleads;

But Bane shows to her no mercy; he grins at her with greed.

Into her ivory skin he digs with his razor sharp, fingertips,

Clawing deeply into her soul, drawing it upward between her lips.

Mouth to mouth he inhales Angelina’s light

Devours her heart as it beats furious with fright

She can’t escape his power, her sex drips vulnerable beneath his control,

Bane sucks upon her ripened fruit and sips with hunger upon her soul.

He probes her with his fingers, twists, and twirls with sheer delight,

He sucks upon her swollen breasts on this evil, wicked night.

He stabs her with his manhood; he thrusts into her his sword,

He devours her with greedy lust – this dark and needy Lord.

Angelina shudders… Angelina moans,

Angelina quivers… Angelina groans.

Sweet and Sour gather, Bitter and Sweet engage in dance,

Pain and Pleasure chatter, Dark and Light romance.

Angelina cries when she kisses his thirsty lips;

Bane’s lust inhales her soul as he takes his final sip.

Angelina’s spirit seeps slowly into him

Dissolving his icy heart which barely beats within.

All the stars and cosmos twist and turn above;

Bane’s no longer wicked, his spirit’s filled with love.

“Don’t leave me, Angelina,” He whispers to her desperately;

She barely has the strength to speak, her bosoms slowly heave.

“Don’t leave, my beloved,” Bane cries as the night gives way to dawn;

He truly loves this mortal one, now soon she will be gone.

Angelina had also fallen in love with this dark and evil man;

She couldn’t resist his tongue – nor the touch of his hands.

Angelina whispers faintly with her last breath of soul,

“Goodbye, my dearest Bane,” she exhales sweet and slow.

Waiting for her is another world, a sublime realm, both dark and light,

Soon her soul will vanish somewhere between the day and the night.

Angelina softly sighs, it’s the last sound from her Bane will ever hear;

She departs this world, roams anew, as daylight climbs the hemisphere.

Bane’s heart’s feeling heavy, tears of sorrow stroll down his cheeks,

Glints of sunlight threaten through a window in which it peeks.

Bane doesn’t retreat for cover; he remains, a victim to the light;

He prays for death, his heart’s forlorn; Goodbye, Prince of Night.

When the Angel of Death meets him, Angelina’s by his side

With a leash and collar, and desire burning in her eyes.

Bane no longer has the power; Angelina’s the Mistress in this world,

“Come, my pet!” She orders, with a toss of her auburn curls.

Sometimes, if you listen closely as you stroll upon the Paris streets,

I am still working on re-editing my blog to transcend it into book form. I am also moving from my artist loft in St. Paul to another artist loft in NE Minneapolis. I am juggling several projects, producing burlesque shows, moving to a new artist loft, and editing my book, Mia Loves Henry Miller.

In between packing boxes, I have opened another online art store, where you can purchase my art work on high quality prints or upon stretched canvas. If you like my work, please support me as an artist. I would be extremely grateful.

Thank you for continuing to follow me. When I am hard at work editing my first book of letters to Henry Miller, I often take many breaks to think. The best way for me to let go is to be creative in an artistic way. I love to paint with acrylics on canvas. I love to use Sharpie pens/markers and Prisma Color Markers on Bristol Paper. Due to the many hours that go into producing a portrait, I cannot let the originals go inexpensively. However, with the help of Zazzle.com, I am able to do so in a more feasible way.

If you love Henry Miller, and reading my letters, you might be interested in decorating your bedroom with this print of Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Big Sur. I am in the process of building my store. Please visit it often for other prints of my art work.

It is my hope that my readers will help support me as an artist as I edit this book. Very Sincerely, Mia

I would sincerely like to thank my viewers and readers who visited my blog over the past year. I have never written a blog before. So I began blindly. This blog is written in a raw, unedited form. These letters are now transcending into a book. Much of the information you have read, will be omitted and the format of my letters will change, in order to put some order into the chaos. Thank you to all the readers who continued to follow me as I lived my life over the course of the past year. This project has been a passion of love for me. I must begin my long day of editing these letters. I am also currently working on Letter 51. These past fifty letters will be removed shortly, from my blog site, Mia loves Henry Miller.com. Soon, a new beginning to a new collection of erotic letters to Henry Miller will begin.

Thank you again to my reader, fans, friends, and the late artist and author, Henry Miller.

Very Sincerely,

Mia

P.S. You can keep updated on my status or life on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/mia.malonejennings